Anatomy of Sleep
by Formidable Opponent
Summary: A series of Gibbs/Abby one-shots that revolve around the subject of sleep.
1. Lesson I: Stage N1

**_Anatomy of Sleep_**

Today, we will learn about _sleep_--nature's miraculous phenomenon of bodily and mental restoration. We will go through the different aspects of sleep: the stages of sleep, the functions of sleep, sleep disorders, and dreams. Each chapter will be centered upon a subject of interest regarding sleep. The explanation of each subject will be revealed at the bottom of the chapter, though, you should be able to define it by yourself once you finish reading each story. Happy learning.

One rule: try not to miss class. There may be a test at the end. ;)

Any criticisms or comments are always welcome at the teacher's desk. (Tell me how I'm doing; it's my first time teaching.)

* * *

_Lesson I -- Stage N1 of Sleep_

* * *

0300 hours is a wonderful time of night, her favorite time of night. The skies are pure ebony, not a star or constellation in sight, though she swears she can see the latent hints of mist from the quiet fog earlier that evening. Abby sits in her chair, legs pulled close to her body and feet placed firmly on the seat. Her chin lies steadfast between her knees as her arms encircled her legs. She stares wistfully past the windows and into the night sky. The obscure and silent void calms her mind differently than the usual air of her loud euphony.

A ding from her dinger jars her back to reality, her pigtails swinging as she turns her head in the direction of the noise. The team has once again pulled an all-nighter, waiting for crucial AFIS results. Hopping out of her seat, Abby skitters over to her desk to retrieve the printed results. Grinning as she sees the picture matched with the print, she runs toward the elevator. Gibbs is going to be happy. Well, as happy as Gibbs can be.

Clutching the paper to her chest as if it were Bert, she bounces in excitement, waiting impatiently for the elevator doors to open. It's been a heavy week. Tony started running out of movie references two days ago. McGee finally got to the point. Ziva eventually stopped using idioms altogether. And Gibbs. Well, he was the same as ever.

Thinking of her team, her friends, makes her smile cheerfully. These results should lighten their mood; they deserved it. She looks up to the ceiling, her grin flashed in innocence, as if to thank someone above. Her main source of exhilaration, though, was the thought of Gibbs. Eager to get the results to him, she starts hounding at the metal doors in front of her to hurry. She's been looking forward to her 'good work' kiss all day. Nothing can stop her from getting it.

She bursts out of the elevator, four-inch boots thundering as they make broad contact with the floor. Her eyes widen and her stride come to a screeching halt when she sees Gibbs at his desk. She takes a quick glance at the remainder of the bullpen, realizing that the rest of the team is nowhere to be seen; Gibbs must have told them to go home while he stayed for the results. How sweet, she thinks.

Forcing her legs to begin moving again, she noiselessly tip-toes to his desk, careful not to disturb him. She finds him leaning back against his chair, case folders still in his hands, draped over his chest. His glasses are loose upon the bridge of his nose, and she loves it. She always had a thing of glasses, especially if the glasses were on Gibbs. There is a coffee cup on the edge of the desk and she figures it must have gone cold by now.

She reckons he hasn't been sleeping long when she sees his muscles twitch. As his head begins to fall over the back of his seat, his neck jolts forward in attempt to bring it back into position. He is still asleep, and she watches his unconscious movements repeat themselves several more times.

She tries desperately to hide the autonomic giggles that begin to form in the back of her throat. It's been a while since she's seen her silver-haired fox so vulnerable and so cute. Placing the paper on his desk with utmost attention and sliding his coffee away from it lest she knock it over, she starts to move behind the table.

She slips the folders from his hands and stacks them above the paper. She carefully considers her next target--the glasses. This is going to be much more difficult. Raising both hands up, she begins to test her luck. Tugging slightly, she pulls the frame from off his face and rests in on the desk beside him. Success! She nearly jumps with glee in her impressive triumph; it takes every ounce of will power to restrain herself.

There is one last goal to achieve before she can leave him be. The kiss. If he wasn't awake to kiss her, then she'll have to be the one to kiss him. She didn't come all the way up here from her lab for nothing. Lowering her head slowly and cautiously, she stops herself short of her nose on his. She can feel his breath and smell his sawdust scent, basking in the rare closeness of it all. Lingering longer than she should have, she senses something. She promptly opens her eyes to investigate, only to find blue irises staring back at her. Trouble.

Reflexes fast as light, she lays a hell of a smacker on the tip of his nose, knowing her escape is narrow, if at all existent. She pulls back, dashing an innocuous grin.

"Hi, Gibbs!" She tries to play off innocence, arms hidden behind her back as if she had been caught red-handed.

"Abs. What do you think you're doing?" He eases off the back of his chair and sits straighter. His eyes never leave hers, as his brow rises in question.

"Wouldn't you like to know," she giggles. She's certainly toeing the boundary a bit, but she knows he doesn't mind. It's a game they play, and she loves it. Almost as much as the glasses.

"Abby." His voice is almost seductive. She's set for another round of innocent smiles.

"I've got the results and I wanted my kiss. Since you were obviously in no position to give me one, I took the liberty to give myself the honorable duty." She points to the stack of papers on his desk and then to his face, and pouts. She abrutply sits on the papers, though mindful of her favorite spectacles, showing him he will not get them unless he did what she wanted.

He looks down at his desk. Something catches his eye, whether it be the sight of the AFIS results or of her tush.

"Hm. That so?" He gets up from his seat and stands over her, hands on the desk on either side of her arms. He leans in slowly, kissing her gingerly on the tip of her nose. "Like this?"

"It's a start." She lifts a hand to wipe the lipstick from his nose with the cuff of her sleeve. Identical smiles form on their faces as she homes in, only to replace the dark rouge with another sizzling kiss--this time, on the lips.

* * *

_**Stage N1 **_- _The first of three non-REM stages of sleep. During Stage N1 of sleep, the brain transitions between alpha waves (brain waves emitted when awake) to theta waves (emitted when relaxed or resting). This stage is also known as somnolence, or a "drowsy sleep." It comes at the onset of sleep, where there may be hypnotic jerks and twitches. Conscious awareness of the environment is still present, though it begins to fade._

* * *

_Next: Lesson II -- Stage N2 of Sleep._


	2. Lesson II: Stage N2

_Lesson II -- Stage N2 of Sleep_

* * *

"It is my duty to keep you cultured, Gibbs," Abby says beside him, hopping in place to keep warm.

They stand before his home, two bags of groceries in either of his arms, and a pile of DVDs in both of hers. For a few moments, Gibbs finds it difficult to open the door without the full use of his hands, receiving no help from Abby as she watches in delight at his futility. When he finally gets it open, he sighs in relief, grinning at the shrill "yay!" from behind.

He enters through the doorway, wiping his feet across the mat. He waits for her to pass before kicking the doors closed with a solid slam. He easily removes his shoes, and when he's done, he finds Abby having as much trouble with her boots as he had with the door. Always the gentleman, he helps her after setting down the bags. With a sneer, he tickles the sole of her foot, causing her to nearly drop the mass of plastics over his head. He's always been one for revenge, too.

"Gibbs!" She cries in laughter. Before she can get him, he's run off with the grub and out of her sight. "I'm gonna get you, Gibbs! With God as my witness, I'm gonna get you."

Depositing the heavy bags on the counter and then into the fridge in the kitchen, he enters the living room, finding Abby crouched over his DVD player in a most promiscuous fashion. A wide grin on his face, he walks over to her.

"What're we watching this time, Abs?" He tries to peek over her shoulder, but she successfully safeguards her stash from his leering eyes. What exactly he's leering at, one may never know. To see the mighty Gibbs with his libido in a knot is as good as any form of payback.

"Turn on the heat and I'll tell you. I'm freezing' over here!" She isn't very cold, but loves and takes any chance to order her boss around.

"Yes, ma'am." He passes her a hardy salut and walks to the controls. She loves it when they switch roles.

When he returns from turning on the heat, he finds her on his couch, sitting Indian style. She's fuddling with his remote with one hand, holding a warm coffee in the other. He moves to sit beside her, reaching across her outstretched arm to retrieve his cup. He can see she's resisting the urge to slap his arm as he so rudely blocks her vision of the screen.

She's still messing with the configurations of his archaic television set when he's made himself comfortable. "Haven't got all night, Abs."

"You and I both know that's not true." She's right, and he laughs. He wouldn't want to spend his time, especially his nights, doing anything else, with anyone else.

"Got it!" She slouches back against the couch and props her feet over the coffee table. He follows suit, a sly arm weaving its way around her shoulder. He watches her blithely as she nuzzles her head beneath his arm. She presses 'play' and the film begins.

Minutes pass and, astonishingly, he finds himself enjoying the unusual film. Abby, naturally, has seen it a dozen times before, and announces every other line before it's said.

_//Care for a little necrophilia? Hmmm?//_

"Sounds like someone I know," he states into the air plainly, though it's obvious he's baiting a certain goth.

With a sharp gab to the gut, she responds. "I'm not _obsessed_ with death. I just find it interesting, is all. Get that through your thick skull for once, Leroy Jethro Gibbs." She prods an arm out and kiddingly pokes his temple with an astute index finger. He chuckles at her trademark bluntness.

"Alright, alright. Got it." They settle back down, the remainder of the picture filled with the same light banter.

When the film is over, he stretches his arms out and above. Before setting them back down, he realizes that she is fast asleep. Lifting a strain of hair from off her face, he looks at her. Her eyes are motionless, but there lies a slim smile on her lips. He grabs the remote and shuts off the television, leaving only the glow from a distant window to light their figures in the room. Reaching for a blanket mantled at the edge of the sofa, he softly pulls it around her and himself.

Her head still shored against his taut chest, he tilts his face to apply kiss to her temple with a gentleness unrivaled. He wraps a careful arm around her and whispers in her ear. "Night, Abby."

And with that, she stirs awake. With a lazy yawn, she mumbles, "Tony would be proud of you, Gibbs."

"Hm?" He silently slaps himself for waking her. The oddness of her statement puzzles him.

"For watching such a cult classic. I'm proud of you, too." As if she never woke, in an instant, she is asleep again, breathing slowly to the rhythm of his heart.

"Thanks, Abs." They lie in the warmth of the sofa, enveloped in the warmth of the blanket, asleep in the warmth of each other's presence.

* * *

_Can you guess the film Gibbs and Abby watched? Extra credit if you can!_

* * *

**_Stage N2 _**- _Stage N2, a light sleep, is characterized by sleep spindles and K-complexes, which represent the mind beginning to slow its processes and entering a more tranquil state. Muscular activity begins to decrease as conscious awareness of the environment disappears._

* * *

_Next: Lesson III -- Stage N3 of Sleep._


	3. Lesson III: Stage N3

_A/N: The film from the last chapter was "Brazil" of 1985. Good job to those who guessed correctly._

* * *

_Lesson III -- Stage N3 of Sleep_

* * *

Memories often come hand in hand; it's difficult to pick and choose those which stay and those which get lost in the void. He doesn't want to forget them completely. But there are some things he'd rather forget. He doesn't want to block the memories of their short, but happy lives together. But there are some memories that shouldn't have to be remembered. But to forget it all, that would be rude of him--inexplicably disrespectful of him. But it's too painful otherwise.

Those who are close to him know the days that are to follow will hit him hard. But they are prepared, as they are each year around this time.

McGee keeps his explanations short. When he is ordered to locate the suspect via a cell phone, he doesn't ramble on about the complications of the signal bouncing aimlessly across the globe. He simply tells him it is impossible but soon finds the suspect by a different method.

Ziva suppresses her assassin instincts. When she is ordered to apprehend the suspect without killing him, she doesn't brake a single bone in his body as she throws him to the ground. She simply arrests the culprit without a word, leaving the others standing behind her in awe.

DiNozzo refrains from making comedic remarks, sexual or film-based. When he is told to tail the attractive brunette after she has left the interrogation room, he doesn't bask in the luck of his assignment. He simply follows her and soon brings her in again as the accomplice.

Ducky saves his meanders for another time. When he is asked what caused the detachment of almost every major joint in the victim's body, he doesn't digress into the topic of medieval torture devices and methods. He simply explains that the victim had been pulled in two very opposite directions.

Abby knows better. She understands that he doesn't want to be treated differently on account of his misfortune. If anything, he'd want to be left alone. Knowing this, she keeps to her normal, happy self. She waits patiently in her lab, contemplating on his next arrival.

When he comes to her, he seems to be himself. He strides in, an air of tired strictness about him, with two cups held firm in both hands. With the normal greeting, followed by swift bribery, she looks at him, searching for something. What she finds, a man weary of life, leaves her heart aching. She takes him in her arms and holds him close, fearing he may soon be wanting to leave.

Though he is as clean-cut as ever, beyond the surface, she sees the anguish. The wrinkles of his face sink deeper with his every thought concerning the past. The bags beneath his handsome eyes show hours of his sleepless weeping. The calluses on his hands roughened as she touches them in the exchange of caffeine. The sureness of his gait weakens with every step. He is tired.

She wants to grieve for him and for his troubles, but decides against it. He wouldn't want that. Her showing any pity would only prove a sign of her weakness. He's lived through it all, only the strength of his volition to anchor him to reality. She would do the same for him.

At the end of the day, he leaves the Navy Yard, for once, desperate to go home--the home he had shared with his family. He hopes to find solace there, knowing it sometimes dwells within his many bottles of bourbon. He cannot bare to be away, yet he dreads the thought of remembering. His body pines for rest, and so he drives, fearing for the worst, but not giving a damn if it comes.

He thrashes his way through the front door, not turning around to check if it's closed behind him. A single thought occupies his mind--the thought to get drunk--and he makes his way to the basement in search for his remedy. Passing the living room without regard, he fails to notice the figure curled mutely on his couch. She would call to him, embrace him, kiss him, but chooses to stare at him in silence instead. She waits for him.

Tonight, the burn of alcohol will be his cartharsis. He binges carelessly for hours until he can handle no more. He falls asleep beneath the hull of his boat. His face is sullied by the mixture of tears and sawdust. His breathing is labored as he struggles against the nightmares of his sleep. He doesn't realize that there are worse things than bad dreams.

Hours have passed and she's worried. He's been down there, alone, with a strong intoxicant and hand tools. She shivers at the combination. The idea of going to him, to help him, has entered her mind more than once, but she figures he'll want to be by himself for some while--hopefully, to think things through. For the time being, she's been reading one of the few books she finds on his shelf. She doesn't exactly know what it's about, since she begins to drift into sleep after the first several pages.

A sharp cry wakes her, and her head turns aggressively in its direction. It's a shrieking sound, tearing through her ears and erupting from her chest. The dire pain that follows the voice pulls her to her feet, and she runs to him.

In a panic, she anticipates of the worst. She sees him lying there, motionless, underneath the spine of his boat. When she moves closer to him, an arm's length from his mouth, she reaches for his breath and finds it. She gives herself a mental slap for thinking so negatively.

She sees his brow drenched in sweat, and the hem of his white undershirt doused in moisture. She tries to wake him when he begins to tremble. Soft moans of agony flow from his lips as she calls to him in vain. Her efforts are futile, and only the shock of a second, more afflictive cry can raise him from the depths of sleep.

Eyes open and wide, he gazes blankly at the ceiling past the spine. For a moment, he is at peace and away from the avid unconsciousness. But he finds his mind in disarray, a state of unaccountable terror, and soon panics at the confusion. He moves to sit, his hands scrambling to find something to hold onto.

"Gibbs! Gibbs, it's all right! I'm here. It was just a bad dream." She kneels beside him and gathers his head against her chest. His arms wrap around her, seeking the life to pull him from obscurity. It was no dream. It was something far worse.

"Where…where am I?" He manages to gasp. He clings to her helplessly as he waits for her answer.

"Your basement, inside your boat. You passed out." Her hand moves to the back of his neck, caressing the short grey hairs.

"I don't remember," he says, choking in realization. He can't remember how he got this way or why he feels such consuming fear. The sense of being incapacitated, defeated by his own insecurities--it enrages him.

With a force he never intends, he pushes away from her and stands. He slams a fist against a slender rib of his boat, sending the entire structure shaking in reception. His head soon follows, coming in contact with the polished wood in a loud thud. "I can't remember!"

She watches him for a moment, waiting until he's calmed. She stands to meet him, ignoring the hurt in her chest. She's afraid for him and of him. Subduing the fear--she could never be truly afraid of her Gibbs--she places a soft hand on his shoulder. Seeing no change in his demeanor, she steps closer, wrapping her body behind his. Her hands tremble, but she tries hard to conceal it. Her palms flat on his chest, she can feel his heart slow and his breathing wind down. Not satisfied with the makeshift diagnosis, she puts an ear to his back, and confirms what she feels with what she hears.

"It's alright, Gibbs. It's over." It's a desperate endeavor to assure him, but she knows he won't take much heed. To him, it'll never be over.

"They come back, Abs. They always come back!" He shouts in frustration, furious at his own frailties and failings. To her, it's something else. The guilt is long past, but the memories still dawdle and they squander his thoughts. A perpetual cycle of rumination--the memories constantly arise, but he forever represses them. And now this terror. It never seems to end.

The memories are full and blatant, the terror shrouded and masked, yet they are one in the same. They come to him, never unitedly, but always in concert. Together, they wreak havok on his mind as one seizes the day, the other the night.

"Let them. Sometimes, it's better we don't remember everything. Sometimes, things are too painful, so we lock them up inside, hoping we'll never see them again. But that doesn't always happen, Gibbs. Those things, they only grow--grow until they bust out and eat you alive. You've got to let it out, Gibbs. Let them go and they'll stop haunting you." She mumbles between his shoulder blades. She hugs him tighter, hoping it'll encourage him to take the advice. "Just let them out."

She nuzzles into him, tip-toeing to match his height. Angling in, she kisses the back of his neck, trailing the hem of his shirt slowly. Her lips linger at his jugular, then move upward to structure of his ear. The heat of her breath makes him shiver and she ceases her advances.

An eternity passes, and he swears she has fallen asleep on his back. With a deep breath, he turns to face her, only to be slightly taken back. As bright as ever, her green eyes are wide and awake, staring deep into him. It's a look of understanding, and he knows she only wants to offer her help. This time, he'll accept it eagerly.

The ferment of his night terror beginning to dwindle, he brings a hand to sign against her cheek. He holds her head in place and leans in. Kissing her lips briefly yet tenderly, he pulls back to meet her bemused gaze. Their eyes are still glistening, but the tears have stopped falling. She looks into his iron blue eyes, now partially fixed with the confidence and authority as once before, and receives a soundless 'thank you.'

* * *

_A/N: I had a bit of trouble with this chapter and I'm not too fond of the outcome. Tell me what you think._

* * *

_**Stage N3 **__- Stage N3 (now combined with N4) is known also as deep or slow-wave sleep (SWS). It is characterized by delta waves and is the state in which certain phenomena, which the sleeper cannot remember when awoken, i.e. sleepwalking, night terrors, etc., occur. _

_**Night Terrors **__- A night terror is a parasomnia disorder characterized by extreme terror and an inability to fully waken. The subjects suddenly wakes during Stage N3 or deep sleep, screaming or gasping, only to fall back to sleep without any recognition of the ordeal; only the feelings remain. It is often difficult to wake the subject during a night terror. A night terror is not a dream and has no scenario, theme, images or noises. Rather, the subject feels only the emotion of fear itself. The lack of a dream may leave the subject in a state of disorientation once awake, often including a short bout of amnesia. In adults, night terrors are often trauma-based, rather than genetic or chronic. Sufferers of night terrors have characteristics such as suppression of aggression, anxiety, impaired memory, self-directed anger, passiveness, and the ability to ignore pain._

* * *

_Next: Lesson IV -- REM Sleep._


	4. Lesson IV: REM Sleep

_Lesson IV -- REM Sleep_

* * *

The skies are blue and clouds float by in slow serenity. In other words, it is a day Abby does not particularly care for. It is the time of day when most people were awake, the hour or so before lunch. She is not like most people.

Gibbs saunters in with almost a smile on his face. At the moment, his team is working on a semi-important cold case, of which its forensics, surprisingly, is not the main concern. Like many a day before, he holds a coffee for himself in one hand, and a Caf-Pow for her in the other. Though his bribery is unneeded, he thinks it'd be a nice pick-me-up for his favorite Queen of Darkness.

When he enters the lab, he instantly senses a disturbance. The music is playing modestly low and the joint hum of the machines is suspiciously absent. With the use of his ninja detective skills, he proceeds to investigate. If the music is playing, she must be here--he gathers so much. If she is not working with her machines, then she must be doing something else--again, his talents are unmatched.

Joking aside, he concludes she must be asleep, somewhere. He walks into her office and searches for her handy futon. There, he finds her, arranged in fetal position, using Bert as her pillow. He grins broadly to himself at the sight. It's nearly 1100 hours and she's fast asleep as though it's middle of the night. He thinks--to her, 1100 is the middle of the night. Seeing as how she is awake when most are asleep, it makes all the world's sense for her to be sleeping when all else are walking about.

Setting down both cups on the desk beside her, he crouches down to look at her more closely. Her face, though partially covered by undone pigtails, is tight in a scowl. Her eyes beneath its lids move about furiously, as if in search for something. He imagines she's at the heart of an earnestly strange dream, one not so pleasing on account of her frown.

He reaches to brush a strand of hair from her face, the slight contact causing her to curl her body inward and squeeze her pillow hard. The sound of Bert's flatulence fills the room in a blazing thunder, leaving utter silence in its wake.

Her eyes spring open, the shock of the sudden noise detectable in her wandering gaze. She settles on the view of Gibbs in front of her and sits up. She shakes her head, hair jaunting in all directions, to wake herself fully. He stumbles backwards to avoid being assailed by the black tendrils, and lands squarely on his backside.

"Sorry, Gibbs." She offers a hand in apology and he takes it, pulling himself back up to sit when she pats the spot beside her. "Better than finding me with my head glued to the keyboard, huh? More comfortable, too."

"Happy to see you, too, Abby." His tone, though undetectable to the probie's ear, is laced with sarcasm. Abby loves witty Gibbs.

"Oh, you know I'm _always_ happy to see you, my silver-haired fox." She loves that name and bets he does, too, when she sees him smiling in response.

"How was your nap?" He expects her to begin rambling, but knowing he has nothing better to do, he decides to take the chance.

"Ugh. Don't even ask. I had this horrible dream. It wasn't a nightmare or anything like that, but it was funky as hell. Remember that dream I had with Tony at the zoo? Well, it was like that one, but with Palmer at a carnival instead. Way worse. And way freakier," she only starts to explain. She leans forward to droop her head in her hands.

"That bad, huh?" He puts a comforting arm around her and pulls her closer. He kisses the back of her head, rubbing the bare of her upper arm assuringly.

"Just horrifying. I'll never look at that ME's assistant the same way again." She sighs and leans back to rest against his chest. Her hand comes up to tug on the lapel of his coat as she pulls herself closer.

"Wanna tell me about it?" He winces. He should not have asked.

"I dreamt Jimmy was giving CPR to a circus gorilla. Can you believe it? Mouth-to-mouth on a gorilla. Ugh!" She buries her face into the several layers of his attire as if to hide herself from the thought. She feels him chuckle through the cloth.

"I can believe it, because he did. But on a 280 pound man whose pulse returned after Ducky opened the body bag. Not a gorilla, but close enough. Happened two days ago." He laughs again when the image appears in his mind. He hadn't been there personally, but from what Ducky narrated, it must have been one hell of a sight. He regrets missing it. Perhaps the security cameras caught it. He'll have to look into that later.

"Really? Must've been one of those things, you know, that happen in real life but also end up in your dreams all distorted and stuff. That ever happen to you?" She pulls back to look at him, a stout finger underneath her chin in deep thought.

"Maybe." He isn't quite sure how to answer that one.

"I wonder what it all means," she questions aloud, the finger beneath her chin still in place though it begins to tap in rhythm.

"What?"

"You know, the stuff in my dreams. According to good ol' Sigmund, everything that goes on in your dreams is supposed to mean something." With a deep and raspy change in voice and a more than strained Austrian accent, she begins to imitate the late psychologist. _"Dreams are the royal road to the unconscious."_

He laughs at the odd impression. He throws in his own two cents about the topic for the hell of it. "Wasn't he the one that said something about wish fulfillment, too? How fantasies and desires are played out in dreams?"

"Gibbs! I'm surprised! Never knew you studied psychoanalysis." She playfully hooks him above the arm in a mocking gesture. He grins to the side at her vibrant disbelief. "And about wish fulfillment. Happens every time I close my eyes." And she closes her eyes in proof.

"Not gonna tell me, huh?"

"Only in _your _dreams, Gibbs."

"I bet I can guess what it is."

"Gimme your best shot."

Her eyes still shut, she doesn't anticipate what happens next. He leans in, slow and quiet, to kiss her gently on the lips.

* * *

_**REM Sleep**__ - Rapid Eye Movement sleep is characterized by rapid movements of the eyes. It is during this stage where dreams and nightmares are vividly remembered. Heart rate and breathing rate are irregular during REM sleep, much like they are in consciousness. Parts of the brain that control the senses and motor function are active during this stage. _

_**Dreams**__ - Dreams are sequence images, sounds and feelings that are experienced while sleeping, occurring during REM sleep. Dreams are still not fully understood. The theory of activation-synthesis suggests that dreams are a random event caused by the firing of neurons in the brain, namely the cortex. This also synthesizes a narrative by drawing on memory systems in an effort to make sense of what was experienced. Dreams consist of two parts: manifest and latent content, the apparent or obvious substance of the dream and the deeper meaning of the dream, respectively. Events in reality are often translated into dreams; this content is called day residue._

_For more on dreams and Sigmund Freud, please refer to your nearest Wikipedia, 'cause I'm too lazy to explain everything. Thank you._

* * *

_Next: Lesson V -- The Functions of Sleep._


	5. Lesson V: Functions of Sleep

_Lesson V -- The Functions of Sleep_

* * *

"Come on! Get in!" He calls to her from afar. He's at the shoreline, tinkering with his boat, getting it ready for voyage. It's an unusually sunny day, the perfect day for a morning sail. He's dressed casually in khaki shorts and an old green t-shirt. The visor he wore down in Mexico shades his eyes from the sun. Water from the sea washes up to greet his legs, the cold sensation leaving him strangely content.

"Coming!" She stands at the back of his car, black parasol in hand to keep her from melting. She sports a tight t-shirt that resembles in color to his but darker, and a crimson skirt. She's abandoned the four-inch platforms for a more water-friendly and sand-friendly pair of Converse shoes. She hurries over to where he stands waving to her. The sand beneath her feet creates a feeling she rarely experiences. "You got everything?"

"Yeah. Everything's ready." Holding out a hand, he guides her into the boat. He waits for her to take a seat before pushing into the water. With a force that can rival that of any twenty-something year old male, the boat sails off.

He jumps into the boat, grabbing an oar to row further away from the shore. Once he's satisfied with the distance, he turns his attention to the woman in front of him. She twirls the parasol with both hands, the shaft leaning against her shoulder. Her gaze is focused on the water to her side and then to the edge of the boat, a smile painted in wonderment. He wishes he had brought a camera.

"I never thought you'd finish this boat, Gibbs. I was so used to seeing that empty skeleton in your basement, I think I'm going to miss it." She caresses the rim of the boat with a free hand, and looks up to meet his eyes.

"It won't be long before you see another one, Abs," he confesses. The building of his boats has become a constant catharsis for him over the years, giving his hands something to do and his mind an outlet for escape, and he doubts he'd survive long without having one to work on. It also gives reason for his favorite lab bat to drop over and he's grateful for that.

She nods at his assurance and looks at the sights around her. Lots of water. Lots of sun. It's been a while since she's seen so much of either, let alone together. The silence of the lulling sea lures her mind into a stream of consciousness, but a minor rock of the boat jars her back to reality. "So now what?"

With a raised brow, he answers her question with another question. "What do you mean, 'now what?'"

"What've you got planned now? I mean, we just gonna sit here and stare at each other or what?" Actually, she's quite taken of the idea. The man before her is gorgeous and she certainly wouldn't mind just staring at him all day. Maybe he feels the same. The thought forces a tinge of blush on her cheeks and she tries to conceal it by innocently twirling the parasol.

Getting her meaning, yet narrowly missing the blush, he turns and reaches behind him. He pulls out a basket in one arm and a pair of fishing rods in the other. Gibbs is always prepared. "Food or fish. Take your pick."

Taking her time to consider both options, she concludes, "Too early for lunch. Fish it is."

She reaches for the extended rod and holds it blankly in her hand. She studies her situation and frowns.

"Something wrong?" He begins to apply the bait to the end of the hook. A man of tradition, he uses earthworms.

"Big problem." She stretches out both her arms to the side, hoping he'd see the trouble.

"A bit of sun is good for you, Abs. Ditch the parasol, for once. It won't kill you." For him, the solution is simple. For her, it's a matter life and death. Kind of.

"You know I can't do that, Gibbs! I've got sensitive skin! I'll crinkle like an old lady by the time we get back to shore! You wouldn't want that, now, would you?" She feigns hysterics. It's true her skin is sensitive, but the sun won't do much harm other than give her a nice mild tan. She just really likes that parasol.

"You as an old lady? Can't imagine it." She strikes him as the type who will remain forever young. It's the aspect he admires and cherishes most about her. When he is with her, it is always the present. She doesn't remind him of the past, and for that, he owes her. "Come on, Abs. For me?"

Goodness…puppy eyes. She never thought it was possible. The look numbs her expression with shock, and she hurls the parasol behind her. Forfeiting the rod as well, she gets up and throws herself at him. Her arms constrict around his neck and he shuts his eyes in surprise. The boat rocks at their sudden conjugation.

"I _cannot_ believe you did that! Gibbs! Who knew you were such a softie!" Well, she's always known. But this is just too much. "Attach that look to a Caf-Pow, and I swear, you'll get your results in half the time!"

He laughs at her gaiety. Sometimes, even his own spontaneity surprises him. He stands up in an attempt to shake her off, the boat still rocking from before. "Come on, Abs. Save the hugs for--"

Before he knows it, the boat flips over in a single tilt. Even the boat cannot handle all their merriment.

"Abby! You alright?" He's an excellent swimmer and has no trouble staying above the water. His partner in crime, however, seems to be struggling, if only slightly.

"Gibbs! If you wanted me off so badly, all you needed to do was ask!" She gasps for air, arms flailing in the water. Taking a once-in-a-lifetime chance, she splashes him with water in revenge, sending a few light items from their picnic basket lunging toward him.

He ducks, but still receives the bulk of the wave, knocking the visor from his head. His turn. She giggles and he laughs. For minutes until they're out of breath, they proceed to wrestle within the water. A food fight in water. Another thing she never thought possible.

Hanging breathlessly on the overturned boat, they grin at one another. Damp silver bangs hang over his face, and she sees a side of him only two others have seen before. She must be a very lucky girl and she knows it.

An idea forms in her head and she grabs hold of his hand. She pulls him beneath the water and drags him to reemerge inside the upturned boat.

"Abby!" He exclaims the second his mouth leaves the water. He sees her eyes wandering within the reaches of the boat, and he follows her gaze, taking in the same sight with awe. The hull glows with the reflected light from the sea, radiating a bright but calm hue of blue across the wooden panels and onto their own faces.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" She asks, her eyes still roaming.

"Very," he answers, his eyes focused on her.

Turning her attention to him, she flaunts a lofty grin. His intent gaze on her doesn't go unnoticed. "There goes our lunch. I'm famished." From beneath the water, she reaches for his hand, lacing her fingers with his. She pulls forward, the slight force bringing them both together with ease. Leaning in to kiss his cheek, she suggests in his ear, "Say we go back?"

Seeing a twinkle in her eyes, he eagerly nods and together they flip the boat over. He rows them toward shore and they are both quiet. The sun shines freely over her face and the sight shapes a smiles across his lips. Only minutes before, when they had been under the boat, he had seen something that stunned him--the beauty beneath the dark rouge.

* * *

He loads the boat to the back of his vehicle and drives home in no apparent rush. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his soaking clothes making him a just a tad bit uneasy. He turns to check on her, seeing an arm propped against the window sill, and her cheek lying flat against her palm. She seems to be asleep, but a small bump on the road jolts her back to consciousness. She stays awake for the rest of the short trip, staring blankly through the window and at passing sights.

They arrive at his house and she promptly moves to his bedroom to change out of her wet clothes. She blindly grabs a shirt and pair of shorts from his drawer, and shuts herself in his adjoining bathroom. He comes up a moment later and changes publically at the foot of his bed.

Done, she cautiously pulls open the door, for whatever reason she hopes to discover. Prodding her head through the narrow space between the door and its frame, she steals a peep at her gracious host. A shirt coming over his head leaves his torso in full view, and her prying eyes find focus on the elaborate outline of his abdominals. She giggles and pulls herself from his sight when she realizes she's been caught.

Waiting a second or two before making her way out of the bathroom, and to regain her composure, she greets him with a fresh smile, ignoring the threat of his stare. Pulling him into a brief hug, she thanks him. Whether for the sailing trip or for the glance at his physique, he can only guess. She brings a hand up to tussle his still damp hair, and then drags him out of the room.

Back downstairs, he offers to make lunch, opening the doors to his refridgerator. Feeling guilty to have ruined their first meal, she volunteers to help and lunges herself at the contents in his fridge.

A turkey and ham sandwich and a glass of orange juice for each, they finish within minutes and meet up in the living room. She walks ahead of him and falls face first onto his couch, the length of her body matching the length of the sofa.

"The food coma is setting in…," she mutters into the soft fabric.

"Tired?" He lifts her legs to make room for himself. Sitting, he sets them back over his lap and lets his head fall over the back of the sofa.

"Only probies state the obvious, Gibbs." She makes a lazy effort to lift an arm and point at him. "And don't pretend you're not tired, either."

"You know me so well." He gives her a bored slap on the calf, and she moans in annoyance. She flips over on her back and huffs.

"Gibbs, I thought you said you packed everything."

He closes his eyes to rest, though he continues the conversation. "I did."

"Clothes. You should have brought extra." She crosses her arms over her chest.

"Wasn't counting on taking a swim, Abs."

"Ah! 'Wasn't counting on.' Means the thought did cross your mind, though."

"Maybe." She heels him in the thigh and he winces at the stiff contact. "Yikes, Abs."

She props her head up on the armrest and takes a peek at him, squinting a peculiar expression on her face.

His head still inclining on the backrest, he turns to match her look with one of his own. "What now?"

"I'm trying to imagine you with that face. From before, I mean. Can't see it, even if I squint. Damn." With a masterful pout, she sinks further into the cushy fabric of the couch.

"Once in a lifetime thing, Abs. Be glad you saw it at all." The expression of a lifetime, a still of the present. For what it's worth, it's his gift to her, for the timelessness she brings to him. And the beauty. It's the least he could possibly do.

Stifling a yawn, she adds, "'Course I'm glad. I just hope I never forget it. But I'm not saying that it'd be easy to forget, 'cause nothing about you is easy to forget. It's just that I would never _want_ to forget_ if_ it ever happens, ya know? Never, ever, gonna forget it…" Another yawn, rather than Gibbs, cuts her incoherent ramble short.

"Abby. Sleep." Short and to the point, he commands her with an unusually weary voice.

"Yes, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am. On it, ma'am," she mumbles, a hand bucking off her forehead in a feeble salute. Her eyes begin to flutter close, though not before seeing his eyes do the same. "See you in my dreams, my silver-haired fox. Better bring that face with you, too."

"See you, Abs."

_

* * *

_

_A/N: It's teasingly fluffy, almost unrealistically so, and a bit OCC at parts, I think, so may I offer my apologies._

_Also, I don't think I covered the topic as much as I would have liked, but I hope you've enjoyed it, nevertheless._

_

* * *

_

**_The Functions of Sleep:_**

_Memory Processing - Both declarative (factual) memory and procedural (skills) memory are shown to be affected by sleep. All in all, normal sleep helps one to remember better. (After such an unforgettable trip, both Gibbs and Abby are going to need a lot of sleep.)_

_Restoration - Sleep helps preserve and restore an organism's energy. It also affects the processes of wound healing, the efficiency of the immune system, and metabolic function._

_For more on the functions of sleep (and there are actually more), you know where to look._

_

* * *

_

_Next: Lesson VI -- Insomnia._


	6. Lesson VI: Insomnia

_A repost of **Worth Living For**. I thought it would fit perfectly with this next subject._

* * *

_Lesson VI -- Insomnia_

* * *

The vest had saved his life, but he wasn't sure if he was grateful for it. The bullet had hit in near point-blank range, straight into the center of his chest. It hurt like a son of a bitch, still does, but he will never admit it. He's been shot too many times to begin complaining now.

When she hears the news, she shuts down her machines and leaves to go home--not her home, but to his. She manages to pick her way into the passenger seat of his car and waits for him patiently. He comes only minutes later, acknowledging her presence before entering his vehicle. With a soft palm against her cheek and a weary smile, he starts the engine.

Her eyes never move from his chest. He doesn't need to look at her to know she continues to stare. When they reach his house, he opens the door for her. She refuses to move until she feels his callused fingers lace with her own. She suddenly attempts to hide her concern for him, finding composure in the familiar scent of sawdust, the scent of him. She needs to be strong for him. His home is lukewarm, yet cold in desolation and vacancy. Calmness fading just slightly, she trembles at the thought of why.

He moves upstairs and prepares the spare bedroom. Once he's finished, her calls to her, stepping out of the room to search when there is no answer. He doesn't need to look far until he's found her. He discovers her in his room, her gothic attire sprawled carelessly on the floor and his drawer an inch open. She must have changed into his clothes in a matter of seconds. She is already beneath the sheets, eyes fluttering in the descent into sleep.

With his back to the bed, he begins to strip his own clothes, replacing them with a worn t-shirt and a pair of shorts. Laying the last discarded article onto the arm of a nearby chair, he slips into bed beside her. He normally sleeps on the right side of the bed, the side closest to the door, but she lies there peacefully, head buried into his pillow. He shan't disturb her. She rests on her side, facing him. He lies silently, arms to either of his sides, staring blankly at the whiteness of the ceiling. He listens carefully to her breathe.

As with many cases of his insomnia, a ceaseless rumination forestalls him from resting. Shannon and Kelly, then Kate, and most recently, Jenny. Death. He's thought of this biological phenomenon many times before, but it never comes to him, unlike it does to those around him. There were times when he thought he would die, and times when he wanted to die. He's suffered and caused suffering. He can't control it, any of it, though he prays to God for the ability to end it all. Their deaths were because of him. They died because he left; she died as bait for him; she died trying to save him. He's seen a great deal of death, more than any one man should, and caused just as much. But he's never experienced it. Perhaps it would be more satisfying than life. He unconsciously considers the comparison, but tries to shun the sinful thought. It doesn't budge. He doesn't understand why he must proceed to live while those he loves dwell six feet below his tired feet. There is no motive for him to continue, while he can think of many for him to join them. He curses the damned vest.

Hiding tears, knowing faintly they will never fall, from above, he unintentionally turns his head to face the body beside him. And as if on mark, she stirs awake. He shuts his eyes from her.

He barely notices when she shifts closer to him. His arm stiffens slightly as her body pushes against it. Her bare legs cross with his own. He can feel every curve; he memorizes every touch. Her face is impossibly close to his, her breath melding intimately with his own. A slender hand reaches for his, as the other makes its way onto his chest. She touches him softly, in search for his wound. Her eyes see only traces in the darkness, but she knows when she's found it. Her hand jerks back slightly, in fear of hurting him further, but decides to rest it lightly against the injury. Easy fingers caress the fabric on his skin, and he feels a hint of pleasure. He doesn't stop her.

"Let me see it," she whispers to him. At this, his eyes open. Her green eyes have never been wider and more focused, even if stimulated by a dozen shots of Caf-Pow. Her gaze is intent on him obeying, though he doesn't immediately conform. After a moment of futile consideration, he turns his body to parallel hers. Covering her hand with his, he gently pushes it away. He moves to lift the hem of his shirt, high enough to expose the wound at the center of his chest. He looks with interest for her reaction.

From his eyes to his chest, her glance falls. A sallow, sullen bruise, as large as a dollar coin, lies off-center, directly above his left atrium. Had he not worn the vest, he would most certainly be dead. She knows he's thought of the possibility, but hopes any ideas have gone no farther. Her hand still cloaked in his, he carries it to his chest, laying her palm flat against the black contuse. The warm contact dulls the latent pain, and he shudders again in pleasure.

She leans downward, careful not to tussle his upraised shirt, and supplants her lips where her hand had been. Brushing gently for a few seconds more, she murmurs almost inaudibly into his firm body. "Feel better?"

Welcoming the warmth of her breath on his sore flesh, he replies. "Mm, much."

He feels a smile form on her mouth, triggering him to organize one on his, if only for a second. For moments, they lay silently in each others arms, her head still safely concealed beneath his chin. But soon, the thoughts return and linger.

As if she notices his disarray, she shifts to hold him closer. In a low and pleading voice, the head held close to his heart begins to speak. "Please. Live. If not for your sake, then for mine. I need you." Her words are bent on changing his chain of thought.

He pushes back to see her face. Cold air slips between them, lapping at his skin as they separate. He ignores the sensation to raise a hand, tilting her head toward his. In a slow and deliberate movement, he captures her lips in an impassioned kiss. Her lips are warm and full, enticing his senses. Her cautious ferocity breathes into him life. He begins to understand.

They make love and for an instant in time, his thoughts wander from their recent field of interest. They rest in repose, their breaths in tune as her body perches atop him. His mind digresses in a good way, for once, as she fumbles with lengths of his silver hair. A passive solace emanates from her to him and a long sought-after sigh escapes his lips. Her heartbeat against his own catches his attention, and he remembers her words--words finally capable of luring him into a hopeful slumber.

He can live for her, and for now, that's enough.

* * *

_**Insomnia** - Insomnia is a sleeping disorder characterized by the sufferer's inability to sleep or 'rest their mind.' It can be brought about by changes in the sleep enviroment, stress, depression, and a number of different inputs. Depending on the severity, insomnia can last from days to years, with sporadic periods of normal sleep in between. _

_For more on insomnia, look it up. There's lots of stuff on this interesting topic. Danke._

_

* * *

_

Next: Lesson VII -- Restless Legs Syndrome.


	7. Lesson VII: Restless Legs Syndrome

_Lesson VII -- Restless Legs Syndrome_

* * *

It's a seemingly normal day. Gibbs enters the lab, caffeine in hands, ready for results. Abby is dressed in a black t-shirt, adorning a signature dog collar choker--the one with the single ring in front. She sports a short plaid skirt of red and black. He notices that these skirts seem to be getting shorter as the years go by.

Her back is to him, as she is apparently occupied with a hair sample under the high-power microscope. A foot propped up against the metal bar at the bottom of the table, she shakes her leg up and down in slow rhythm, flaps of her skirt moving in unison. She seems normal enough. Well, as normal as Abby can be.

He stands only inches behind her, but with the music and sample to distract her, she doesn't notice. "What've you got for me, Abs?"

She jumps back, startled. He spreads his arms out wide to evade a collision between her and the drinks. Instead, her back thumps hard against his chest, and he let's out an audible 'oomph.'

"Gibbs! Thank God, you're here! Caffeine! Now!" She spins around and grabs the Caf-Pow out of his hand. After a ten-second swig which he doubts could have left more than half the liquid still in the cup, she sighs in delight. "Thank you, thank you, thank you, Gibbs!"

With a kiss to his cheek and another giddy 'thank you,' she proceeds to give him the results of her analyses. Flying from machine to machine, the movements of her skirt catches his attention.

That leg-shaking bit--he blames it on the caffeine withdrawal.

* * *

He gets into his car and promtly shuts the door. She is already in the passenger seat, coffin back-pack and Bert in lap, ready for take-off. They give one another mutual grins and he starts the motor. It's just past 1900 hours and they're both starving.

She suggests a nice Italian joint somewhere downtown, but when she hears her stomach growl, she quickly changes her mind and proposes someplace closer.

Turning a right corner, he catches glimpse of her legs. In the millisecond he has to see, he notices Bert, still firmly on her lab, moving up and down. Her legs must be causing the steady motion.

"That hungry, huh?" He questions. They're only a few blocks away from their destination.

"I'm practically dying, Gibbs! Can't you drive any faster?" He laughs at her zeal, and does as he's told. So far, she's been the only one who never once complained about his driving. In fact, he thinks she likes it fast.

They arrive at a local diner, not far from the Navy Yard. Shifting into the parking gear, he tells her to stay put. He gets out and in a flash, he is by her side, offering the door open.

"Love ya, Gibbs." She lands another brief kiss against his cheek, a smile ever present, as she steps out from the car.

He walks her to the doors of the diner and again, opens them for her. Looking down, the whiteness of her knee-length socks against the bright red tiles of the floor catches his attention.

That leg-shaking bit--he blames it on the hunger.

* * *

The diner is full, but they manage to snag a table near the back of the restaurant. Unfortunately, they are a menu short. The waitress gives Gibbs the last one, under the say-so of Abby. She already knows what she wants to order.

He suggests she still take a look at the menu, to see if there's anything else that might catch her eye. Sitting opposite each other, he pats the seat beside him and tells her to come over. He schooches toward the window to allow her room. They share the menu and within minutes, order enough food to feed the entire squadroom.

When the food arrives, she doesn't bother to move back to other side of the table. She likes to sit beside him, and he doesn't mind at all.

Gorging down a Coke, a burger, and fries at once, there's no doubt that something might miss its target. She drops a fry on her lab and looks down to retrieve it. Both her hands are occupied, the Coke in one and the burger in the other. Gibbs comes to her assistance. He recovers the fry and pops it in her mouth. He hears a gargled 'thank you,' and they continue with their meal.

He finishes up his fries and notices she has a few left on her plate. He feels a bit of shaking from where he sits. He looks down to see her legs bouncing up and down again, the stain where the fry from before had fallen moving with them.

"You're going to have to wash that, Abs," he says matter-of-factly, concerning the stain.

"No prob. Happens all the time. Good thing it's machine washable, huh?" She looks at her skirt, disregarding the stain with a shrug of the shoulders, shoving the last handful of fries into her mouth.

He follows her gaze and stares back at the skirt. The intricate tartan design beneath the oily smudge catches his attention.

That leg-shaking bit--he blames it on the greasy satisfaction.

* * *

He pays for dinner and intends to drive her home. It's barely 2100 and she tells him she wants to help him build his boat, knowing that's probably what he'd do once he gets back to his place. He doesn't disapprove.

They reach his house and make their way to his basement. She marvels at his boat, always impressed when she sees it. Running a hand over a smooth rib, she's ready to help make this baby.

He sets out the necessary tools and a bottle of bourbon. At first, he gives her only the simple task of polishing the wood. Seeing how quickly she excels at that, he orders her to begin drilling holes in designated places. He leaves the sawing and other small chores for himself. The first hour of their operation is accompanied by random chit-chat, of mostly eager babbles on her part and quiet chuckles on his.

Drilling is a laborious activity, and it leaves her arms flabby and tired. She casts her tool to the side and flops down onto his workbench. Grabbing the bottle of bourbon, she takes a gulp and sets it down beside her. She lets out a loud sigh at the aesthesis of the rigid alcohol.

"Too much work for you?" He calls to her, though his eyes are focused on the job in front of him.

"Tired. Just a little bit. Give it a few minutes and all this lactate should be on its way to my liver." She gestures to the muscles in her arms and then to her lower abdomen, despite his not looking.

Turning in her direction, he sees her sitting cross-legged, left thigh bobbing up and down. She tinkers with a small hand tool, holding it close to her face for further inspection. The bottle of bourbon seated between her folded legs catches his attention.

That leg-shaking bit--he blames it on the alcohol.

* * *

In the middle of the night, they lie together in his bed. Dressed in his worn attire, she's curled to the side, fast asleep. His arm is slung loosely around her waist and his chest is pressed lightly against her back. Her hair, close to his face, tickles his nose and he wriggles it unconsciously.

For hours, they sleep peacefully. The soft orange glow of nearby street lamps stream seamlessly onto their dormant forms from between the slides of the blinds. The sharp siren of a passing ambulance causes her to stir. Even in unconsciousness, he pulls her closer in a protective gesture.

A swift kick to his shin, and he's awake. He blinks a few times to clear the murkiness in his eyes and he thinks of what hit him. He waits to see if it comes again, and when it doesn't, he eagerly drifts back into sleep.

Another kick, and his eyes shoot open once more. He leans over her to check if she's awake and finds that she isn't. Reclining against the headboard, he remembers the events of the past day and recalls the four times he'd noticed her moving her legs. He had attributed her motions to certain stimuli present, or lacking, at the time. For her movements now, he can think of no such stimulus. It begins to worry him.

As his mind remains focused in its train of thought, he is unprepared for the next attack to his lower extremities. A hard heel jabs him in the shin, and he cannot help but growl in pain. The raspy sound wakes her and she turns around to investigate.

"Woah, Gibbs. What's the matter?" She yawns and raises a hand to rub her eyes.

"Abs, I think you've got a problem." He sits up, careful to not disturb the sheets, to rub his aching leg.

"What are you talking about?" She props herself onto one arm and looks at him quizzically.

"I think you might have some nervous disorder. You keep shaking and moving your legs about. Haven't you noticed this?" He places a steady palm to her cheek, concern written in his expression.

"I've known it for a long while, but it's no disorder. No need to fuss about it." She laughs at his unnecessary worry and puts a hand over his.

"Abby, if there's something you're not telling me--," he begins, but she cuts him off with a strict finger to his lips.

"Gibbs. It's your silver hair. Gets me all tingly inside, remember? Makes me wanna move, ya know." She leans in to kiss him softly on the cheek. "My legs shake because of you. They shake _whenever_ I'm with you. They shake _only_ when I'm with you. That's all. Got it?" She removes her finger from his lips to let him speak, bringing her hand to rest against his chest.

With a trusting smile, he nods. "Got it."

She slips back into a peaceful slumber as he watches her silently. He instinctively thinks of a way to stop the constant shaking.

When he feels her beginning to stir, he puts his theory to the test. Scooting closer, he wraps his legs securely around hers, the warm smoothness of her gams exciting him. He restrains the temptation, keeping a focused mind on the problem at hand. He waits for a minute, then ten, another thirty, until he can no longer stay awake. In the last moments of consciousness, he surprisingly finds that she no longer moves. With a lazy smirk, he congratulates himself on success of his cunning solution. And his final thought--he must do this more often if he intends to fully resolve the problem.

That leg-shaking bit--he blames it on himself.

* * *

_**Restless Legs Syndrome **__- Restless Legs Syndrome (RLS) is a condition characterized by an uncontrollable urge to move one's body, most commonly the legs, to stop an odd sensation. It usually occurs during sleep, but can also extend throughout the day when awake. Don't believe me? Google it. _

_

* * *

_

Next: Lesson VIII -- Hypnophobia.


	8. Lesson VIII: Hypnophobia

_A/N: By far, the fluffiest piece I've ever written. Never thought I'd use the 'L' word (no, not 'lesbian') so many times in one fic. Took me forever to write._

_Spoilers: Broken Bird, teeny bits from Bloodbath, Frame-Up, Driven._

* * *

_Lesson VIII -- Hypnophobia_

* * *

She sits silently in the backseat of his car, musing aimlessly. Her knees are drawn up against her chest, arms wrapped around them guardedly as she huddles in the corner diagonal to the driver seat. She closes her eyes and buries her face between her arms.

Her eyes burn with the heated dryness that accompanies a prolonged lack of sleep and she shuts her lids tighter in a rather futile attempt to moisten them. She feels the chill of the late night seep through the hidden breaches of his vehicle, sending goose bumps to form across the lengths of her arms. Opening her eyes for a dreadful moment, she discovers the twill knee-length coat flung over the head of the seat beside her and promptly grabs it.

The coat is fetchingly worn and smells of him distinctly as she brings it to her face. She wraps the thick garment over her legs and arms, the mixture of sawdust and mild cologne on its collar soothes her beyond her comprehension. Her body is tired and her mind weary, but she doesn't dare rest**—**not by her own initiative.

She doesn't expect him to come this early. She had thought his lingering presence in the sanctuary of his car and coat would be enough to comfort her. She hadn't wanted to bother him with her troubles, so she had aimed to seek solace from objects closely associated to him. She had hoped their overpowering influence would have lured her to sleep by now, so she wouldn't have to face him and his inquisitive nature.

And she had thought she had it under control.

Her eyes relax and her cold-stricken limbs begin to warm themselves. The silence, assuasive yet forlorn, bores her, but she welcomes it regardless, trusting it might induce some much needed rest. But it doesn't, as the images she has tried, with all her might, to elude return.

The gentle rustling of keys accompanied by a lack of audible footsteps alert her from a restless and drifting limbo. She cowers further into her corner and watches him, cautiously, as he approaches.

The dim misty glow of streetlights provides adequate lighting as he reaches his vehicle. He had forgotten his coat, and reluctantly made his way back to retrieve it despite the cold of the night. Keys in his hands, he walks swiftly to the back seat, but a dark figure behind the tinted glass halts his stride. He raises a hand to his belted gun as he strains his aging eyes to recognize the person. As quick as his arm had gone up, he lowers it back down.

With the duskiness of the night in addition to the dark tint of the window, he finds difficulty in assessing her situation. He comes closer to the window, but refrains from opening the door.

To confirm it is who he thinks it is, he signs to the person, knowing only she would be able to understand and respond. **_Abby?_**

From her side of the glass, she can see him clearly as day. Exposing only her hands from beneath the safety of his coat, she signs, **_Hi, Gibbs._**

He doesn't know why he continues to sign, when it would be easier to just open the door and speak, but something about their unique form of communication impels him. **_What are you doing here?_**

**_Come in._** She can't stand to see him waiting in the cold on account of her.

He opens the door and beside her, takes the seat where his coat had been. The rush of cold air slams against her exposed skin and she draws the coat closer around herself, shivering. He shuts the door quickly, sending a last surge of chill throughout the insides of the car. He turns to look at her, studying the figure her body creates beneath his coat.

"Going to tell me why you're in my car, freezing to death?" He keeps his distance, sensing her unusual restiveness.

Forcibly stopping her body's incessant trembling, she stays silent, conjuring up a suitable answer. She takes a deep breath and turns her head opposite him, hiding her face. "Needed some place to think."

"So you chose my car," he states blankly, not at all surprised by her reasoning. He turns to look straight ahead, staring at nothing in particular.

"Yeah." Her voice is barely a whisper, but his acute ears pick it up without trouble.

He clasps his hands over his lap. "Tell me about it."

"No. It's nothing…" She trails off, abstaining from starting one of her usual endless rambles. Snuggling closer into the depths of his coat, she can't help but let out a soft sniffle. "You can't…you don't need to help."

He brings his eyes to look at her. Her hair is loose, hanging freely over the fabric of his jacket; the two shades of black are almost inseparable. Her boots stand unworn on the floor of his car. He cannot see her face but is more than curious.

He moves closer, cautiously at first in case of any disfavor, and stops only when his thigh comes to lightly touch hers. He reaches for her chin and turns her head to face him. The contact of their skin makes them both tremble, but he shrugs it off and faults the cold, guessing she has done the same. Her face is void of makeup and her eyes are slightly bloodshot. The normal pallor of her skin seems more sickly than ever. He feels his heat boil at the cause for her pallid appearance.

Her eyes come to greet him, giving him view of the hapless bags beneath them. He moves his hand to cup her cheek and she graciously leans into his giving palm. "Tell me."

She covers her mouth with his palm, her eyes pleading for him to drop the subject. His captive glare bores into her, and the persistence of his touch breaks her. She speaks softly into his hand, feeling the lines of his calluses against her moving lips. "You know what it is."

Indeed, he does.

Her long years of working at NCIS has made her increasingly immune to the consequences of federal police work. It seems each year a disaster would happen, reducing the number of their makeshift family by one. As tensions between countries rise, the chances of an agent getting shot between the eyes or blown up by a pipe bomb increases proportionally.

She's learnt to deal with it, shrugging off the emotional strain with hours of sleepless work and a temporary bout of hysteria. The risk of losing another agent, even a friend, is not what concerns her**—**not any more. She understands the hazards that come with the job, and she praises her agents for staying brave. It's the risk of losing someone whose business does not entail such perils. Someone like Ducky.

The assault on his being had hit her hard, but she masterfully hid it behind an uncharacteristically steady composure when confronted. The others had been suspicious at first, given her opposing reactions from various times before, but had soon learned to never doubt her coping methods. They didn't question her, with the exception of Jimmy, thinking it was about time for her to face the reality of NCIS. They couldn't have been further from the truth.

Special agents are one thing, medical examiners are another.

The façade of her composure doesn't last, and now, with him, it's completely vanished. He understands how she feels, grappling with the same emotions many times himself. It never gets any easier, but one learns to conceal it. Eventually, one learns to accept it.

"Ducky is going to be fine," he reassures her, knowing somehow it won't exactly help.

Feet off the seat and on the ground, she responds, "I know." Her eyes drop from his view, and he feels the weight of her wilting head against his palm.

It's different this time. He knows he won't be able to make her talk like usual. He decides to add a bit of input, hoping to bait her. "But that's not what's bothering you."

"No, no. Don't get me wrong. I love Ducky, and I would never want anything bad to happen to him, but…" She reaches out an arm to push his hand away, but ends up holding it in place against her face, instead. "…he's not one of you guys. He shouldn't…he shouldn't have went through all of that. He should never have been hurt in the first place."

He feels a fresh tear slip through the crease between his hand and her face, warm and dismaying. He tilts his head to look at her better, a thumb softly caressing away the moisture. Her eyes are filled with tears now, the burn of dryness no longer a trouble. "He's out in the field every time we have a case. The danger's always there." He pauses for a moment before continuing. "This time was no different."

"No. It wasn't. The area was supposed to be secured. There should have been police there, protecting him. Even the civilians could have helped, but they all just stood there. How could they have let her get to him?" She doesn't know where she's going with this rant, as she only feels the need to blame it on something, anything.

But he agrees with her there**—**it should not have taken place. "Nobody's to blame, Abs. It happens." He lets her head fall against his shoulder, their hands now linked upon his lap. "Besides, Duck's alright now."

She nestles her head closer to him when she feels his cheek press against her hair. She entwines her fingers with his, squeezing tight, never to let him go. "And if it happens again, Gibbs? I don't think I can handle that." The stifling of a sob causes him to pull her closer. "I don't think Ducky can handle it again."

He's quick to assure her, "It won't." He grabs her hand with a force to match her own, his thumb fraying against the soft flesh between her pollex and index to calm her. "It won't."

"You don't know that. You said it yourself. " She turns her head into him, obscuring her face in the warm crook of his neck. "Anything can happen. Nowhere is safe. Nobody's safe."

The heat of her breath and a flash of déjà vu hit him simultaneously. For once, he's at a loss for words. He knows she is right, that even he**—**Leroy Jethro Gibbs**—**cannot protect them all and save the day, everyday. But hell, he can try. "I'll keep you safe, Abby. With my life, I'll keep you safe."

"No!" She's quick to look up at him, locking with his gaze. Her speech is slow, slurred if only slightly. "I can't lose you too…"

He watches her eyes well up, blinking slowly as she fights away the urge to sleep. She's tired and he knows it. "Abby, when was the last time you slept?"

She had wanted him to change the subject from the beginning, but this isn't what she had in mind. "I don't know. A day ago. Maybe two."

"Abs. It's been a week since Ducky was stabbed."

"Alright. It's been a week. What's the difference?" Giving him a wry look, she leans her head against the soft leather interior of his car.

"This isn't good for you. You've gotta sleep."

"I can't. Every time I close my eyes, I see someone getting hurt. It's just a silhouette, you know, all dark and shadowy, but I get this horrible feeling it's someone I know, someone I love." She closes her eyes in frustration, but it only fuels the emotion further. "Sometimes, when it gets real bad, I see me."

"It won't be you**—**ever." With his free hand, he pats his shoulder. "Come on, Abs. Rest a little, okay? I'll be here when you wake up."

"And if you're not?"

"You're going to have to take that chance." He forces a small chuckle, hoping the rare sight of his handsome half grin will up her spirits. It's an effort to lighten her mood, their moods.

"Not a chance I'm willing to take." She ignores his lure, as hard as it is for her to do so. She squeezes his hand hard. "Losing you is not an option," she states confidently; the change in her voice signals him to continue his blither approach.

"Neither is losing you." He brings their conjoined hands up between them and to his lips. He kisses the back of her hand and lets his mouth linger there. "Don't know what I'd do without your pigtails." He fiddles with a strand of her hair. "Or your makeup." He raises a thumb to press against her lips. "Or your voice." He trails his fingers down the length of her throat, making her giggle at the sensual warmth against her skin. "Or your laugh."

"Gibbs…" She glances down, embarrassed as she feels a tinge of red flushes through her cheeks.

He turns her head back to face him. "Or you." He looks her over, glad to see the touches of color returning. "Either I risk my life for yours or**—**"

Before he could finish the thought, she continues for him, "Mine for yours. It's high time I came around to saving your bum, Gibbs. I owe you. Big time." She lets out a deep sigh, eyes shutting tight as if it were a yawn.

"Not what I had in mind, but…" A slump of her head against his shoulder causes him to pause. "You don't owe me anything, Abs."

"I owe you everything. For all my stalkers, crazed assistants, and demonic cars, I can't thank you enough."

"You, here with me, is enough."

She suddenly finds herself loving the new direction of their conversation. She leans up to peck his cheek, wishing she had worn lipstick to more effectively brand her affection. "Such a softie, and that's why I love you."

He opens her hand which had been held tight against his with surprisingly spry fingers. Leaning his head over the top of hers, he signs against her palm, slowly and carefully to ensure his meaning. **_I love you._**

A bright smile instantly takes form across her lips at the timid display of fondness, but she doesn't mind continuing his method. **_Love you more._**

It's his turn for a grin; he can't believe he's choosing to partake in such childish games. **_I love you more than anything, anyone._**

"Then say it," she demands. Her voice is firm and steady, quite the departure from earlier before. "I want to hear you say it, Gibbs."

He hesitates before answering, considering his options. "I say it, you sleep."

She slides her arms back beneath the coat, the motion causing it to fall from her shoulders. With a huff, she struggles to bring it back up to cover her, her hands bugging in and out of the soft fabric in her effort. "I can live with that."

Recognizing the chance, he grabs her hand and takes it up to his lips a second time, halting her frivolous movements. He clasps her hand intimately, cherishing the feel of it in his. His mouth to her palm, and the tiny hairs of his slight five o'clock shadow tickling her, he whispers almost inaudibly, "I love you."

She giggles at the tickle of his whiskers, the sound making his heart skip one, or maybe even two, beats. "Can't hear you, Gibbs." She wiggles her fingers to touch his nose. "You're gonna have to speak louder."

His lips move nimbly to her thumb, and he again whispers quietly against her skin. "I love you."

Closing her eyes, she replies, "Hmm? Louder, please…"

On the tip of her index finger comes a bolder admission. "I love you."

She lets out a yawn, and snuggles closer to him. He knows she's far from sleeping, but it's a start, so he tries again against her middle finger. "I love you."

A soft rumble of satisfaction comes from her throat, and he grins. Her breathing slows and her body grows limp. Traveling to her ring finger, he says seductively, only to hear a idle chortle in response, "I love you."

A single phalanx left, he aims to make this one count. With his free hand, he guides his coat to her shoulders, shrouding her body from the cold. He brings that arm to wrap around her frame, holding her as close as possible, unable to reach the nearness he truly longs for.

Caressing her hand before the final kiss, his lips make their way to her pinky. "I love you, Abigail Sciuto." He drops their united hands to his chest, holding it fast against his heart. "With every ounce of my blood, I will protect you…" He lets their hands, still closely joined, fall over the tight fissure between their touching thighs. He closes his eyes, and lets the calm rhythm of her breathing lull him away. "And love you."

* * *

_**Hypnophobia** - A fear of sleep. What more of an explanation do you need? :P_

* * *

Next: Lesson IX -- Delayed Sleep Phase Syndrome.


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